When I was in high school, I was a rebel. I woke up in my rusted car, my car moist with rain and stale with cigarettes and heavy with whisky bottles. I usually started my days with a few quick punches in the air and on the broken dashboard of my car, and sometimes the windshield and mirror. They were also broken. I was mad at someone, or something, but I did not know why. I thought the whisky would tell me, but the whisky told me “I don’t give a fuck, buy more whisky.” I thought my tattoos would tell me, but they only hurt. It was like this all morning. The evenings also.

I always wanted to stay in my broken car, but I couldn’t. I worked. I was a crossing guard for a grade school. “Run!” I told the children. “Run, the world wants to erase you! Run! You must run!” Their parents didn’t think I did a very good job. But it was me who watched the children. It was me who knew it rained.